


Another Tomorrow

by keelywolfe



Series: That Zombie AU I Keep Writing [1]
Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Anal Sex, M/M, Rimming, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 21:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zombie Apocalypse AU:  Everything is routine, even when it isn't, and Richard has learned that Graham is a man with singular interests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses for this. *G* Saw this picture:
> 
> http://keelywolfe.tumblr.com/post/52083813933/theheirsofdurin-richard-armitage-spam-58
> 
> And for no good reason my brain went, OMG, zombie!AU!
> 
> Yeah, I went there.

* * *

They shouldn't have stopped. 

Patrol was mind-numbingly routine; going through all the checkpoints one by one, searching for any signs that Infected had broken through the blockades. One or two always found their way in, easily shot down and the smoke from their burning corpses were visible throughout the day back at camp. 

A herd was less likely, shambling near-corpses staggering through the clearing, their ragged moans a gruesome chorus. Richard never was sure if their cries were from pain or the endless hunger. At the end of the day, he didn't give a bloody fuck and either way, they were put out of their misery. A bullet worked on an Infected just fine, cutting through their softened flesh liking cutting through a rotting peach. They'd gotten them all, stacked the bodies like so much putrid firewood and left it to burn. 

Finding the Infected, solo or herd, that was routine. What was worrying was their equipment hadn't detected them until Graham had nearly run the lot of them over. Sensors needed calibrated most likely and that could've, should've, been done back at camp. One herd might be two, even three, and the walkies had enough range to warn the others, even out here in the stones and sticks, but it wouldn't do them much good if they ended up surrounded. They needed to get back, get a squad, and head back out for a thorough check. 

Only, if the monitors weren't working, they might well drive right into another herd. Ammo they had, and guns in abundance. What they didn't have were hands to use them and the best shot in the world could only take down so many. 

That left them here, Richard hunched over the antennas, eye on the old scanner as he calibrated the others. Graham leaned against the Ranger's hood, tapping his gun lightly against his knee as he kept an eye out. Didn't talk, no surprise there, not even with the adrenaline still thrumming, his boots splattered with rusty stains up to the laces. Their socks would be blood-stained, Richard already knew, past experience had taught him those stains would never come out and thank fucking Christ that it was only a bite that led to infection; if it came through blood instead of saliva the rest of the world would already be fucked. 

It was well past dinner by the time the calibration sequence ended, long past the end of their patrol. A nutrition bar staved off hunger but finding a herd was a promise of a long night ahead of them all. 

"We're nearly done," Richard told him, jumping down from the truck bed. "Nothing on the monitors."

"Aye, course there isn't," Graham told him lazily, his gun tap-tap-tapping against his thigh. He holstered it with one easy motion and the muscles in his shoulders and arms bulged as he stretched, groaning. "Was just that one group and we cleared them out right quick." 

Richard only shook his head, striding past him to snag up his rucksack of tools. "You don't know that. We need to get a patrol out overnight and they'll have to check the fences first thing in the morning. We'll have to—erk!"

Richard bit off a curse and a shout as Graham grabbed him by the arm, his tools falling to the ground as he was hauled in, snugged tight into Graham's lap as hot breath fell on the back of his neck. Graham pulled him in between his own legs, the hard ridge of his cock obvious even through both their jeans, nudging at his arse as Graham nuzzled the back of Richard's neck. Shouldn't have been a surprise, not at all, not with the adrenaline still running hot; Graham was a creature of habit, Richard knew, liked to fight and fuck, fuck and fight, and groping Richard with his filth-stained hands should have been no surprise at all. His mouth was a soft, damp touch at Richard's nape, hot and eager. 

"Let me go," Richard told him, striving for calm. "The sun'll be down in an hour and we need to be gone by then."

"Know when the fucking sun goes down," Graham mumbled against his neck, sucking wetly. "Don't fucking care."

"You'll care hours from now when we're not back at home camp," Richard said sharply, grunting as Graham set his teeth against the tendon in his neck. "If you leave a mark and I end up getting a week of blood tests for it, I'm going to shove a boot up your arse."

Graham only sucked harder, though he kept his teeth to himself, sliding lower to mouth at the sweat-stained neck of Richard's worn t-shirt. The hand at Richard's hip shifted, a large palm squeezing one of his arse-cheeks threateningly. "I like the idea of something up your arse."

"For Christ's sake, Graham, we're out in the open," Richard hissed, darting a look around them. Out in the open, hardly any cover at all, but the monitor was clear and it also meant that nothing nasty could be hiding anywhere close by. Maybe Graham could taste his weakening resolve in his sweat, the heady sour-adrenaline of it flavoured with a need to get fucked, because the hand on his arse gave a last tempting squeeze before shifting between his legs, gripping his cock through worn denim. Large fingers wormed between his legs, hefting his balls and Graham ground the heel of his hand against Richard's cock. 

A thick, choked sound caught in Richard's throat, his own hand circling Graham's wrist in a feeble protest. It was his own damn fault, he knew, for not putting Graham on the ground the second he'd latched on, for not stopping this immediately. Soft, too soft, Graham always mocked; he should have given Graham a broken nose for his trouble. Too late now, much too late, he was already spreading his legs with a needy groan, letting Graham push in harder between them, pressing two fingers up behind his balls and kneading, working his hand too hard, the friction of the denim brutal on his bare cock beneath it. 

Richard hissed at the threat of the zipper, fighting a hand beneath Graham's to work open his fly and he felt the warm blurt of laughing breath against the back of his neck, knew that was the exact moment Graham knew he'd won. The temptation to break his nose still lingered, but the throb of his dick warned him that watching Graham kneel in the dirt while blood dripped between his knuckles would be far less satisfying. 

Then even the option was gone, his balance lost as Graham _lifted_ him, fucking bastard, turning to push Richard down on the sun-warmed hood of the Ranger. Richard snarled, struggling against the hard elbow between his shoulder blades, but his leverage was lost, toes dragging uselessly in the dirt. Graham yanked his t-shirt up without preamble, rucking it up beneath Richard's arms, holding him pinned as he licked at the sweat pooling in the small of his back. The sun was already descending in the sky but the heat of the day still shimmered around them, and Richard tasted dust as he buried his face into his arms. 

Graham stood behind him, one hard knee pushing roughly between Richard's, a booted foot kicking his own apart. Beneath him, the hood was wincingly warm against his bare skin, pressed from belly to cheek against hot, dirty metal. A large hand settled on the back of Richard's head, fingers sifting through his sweat-damp, bristled hair as Graham shoved Richard's head down on the hood, his cheek pressed hard against it.

"Don't move," Graham told him, a throaty growl that begged for disobedience. Richard balanced his knees against the fender and pushed his hips up, grinding his arse against Graham's crotch. His low growl melted into a snarl, teeth sinking into the nape of Richard's neck, sucking away the salty-wetness of rising sweat. 

His jeans were already sagging, clinging to his hips in defiance of gravity, but they could never hope to defend against Graham. Denim rasped against his bare skin as they were dragged down to his thighs, leaving him bare. Exposed. 

Graham tugged Richard back until his feet were flat on the ground again, boots settled on hard-packed dirt, before he dropped to his knees and there was a chance. Crouched position, very vulnerable, Richard could kick Graham, lash out and send him howling to the ground, spraying enough blood to tempt any Infected in a two-mile radius. 

Instead, Richard only licked his lips, tasted dust and gasoline fumes as Graham ran his thumbs up the insides of Richard's thighs, nudging lightly as his balls before sharp teeth sank into his arsecheek with enough force to bruise.

Richard jerked, hard, pounding on the hood with a clenched fist as he snarled out, "Fucker!"

There was no play in biting, not in these days, and Graham did it anyway, licked at it afterward, sucked it redder, a bruised ring of toothy indents, "Needed to mark my territory."

"You've marked it, you fucking prick," Richard hissed, squirming. The sun was going down, down, down, and they could not be in the open when it did, "Get on with it!"

Graham only hummed agreeably, as if he had all the cunting time in the world. He spread Richard's cheeks with both thumbs and licked right down the cleft of his arse, spearing him with the tip. Tonguefucking him, wet and nasty, the rough scratch of his stubbled cheeks something close to unbearable. Worse when he nosed lower, licking at the soft, pink stretch of skin behind Richard's balls, then back up, a wet, slippery path of tongue working against him until Richard slammed his fist against the hood again, hard enough to leave a dent.

"Oh, oh, fuck," Richard moaned, "Oh, fucking god, you sick bastard, you—" Graham only chuckled darkly, viciously, screwing his tongue in and a finger alongside it, stretching him out so he could get his tongue in deeper. Listened to him biting off words, blurred curses and pleading that Richard wouldn't let escape.

Two fingers in his arse now, stretching him wide and Graham licked between them, spit-wet knuckles straining wider to let him lick around them.

Richard clawed at the hood of the truck, short nails scraping paint and rust, and his legs were spread as wide as his jeans would allow, which was not nearly enough. His own spit was gluing his cheek to the metal hood and Graham was like the embodiment of obscenity, fucking him with fingers and tongue, his unshaven face prickly-brutal against the tender skin of his arse.

Just when Richard thought he could come like this, a large hand circled his dick, tight enough to make him wince, hissing out a sharp, " _Fuck_!"

"Not yet," Graham told him, stabbing his tongue sharply in even as he gave Richard's cock a squeeze that bordered on painful. "That's mine, too."

"Fuck you," Richard rasped out, groaning between his teeth as Graham twisted the fingers in his arse, curling them just enough that Richard quivered, an uncontrolled tremor shaking him. Sweat dripped down his face, Richard tasted it on his lips, mingled salt and dust. 

Richard very nearly begged when it all abruptly stopped, Graham pulling his fingers out with a slick, lewd sound. Over the sound of his own ragged breathing, he barely heard the sound of a zipper going down, "Fuck you?" Graham growled out. "Yeah, that was on my mind."

There wasn't time to brace himself, no time at all before Graham pushed the head of his cock against his loosened arsehole and shoved, one brutal thrust that drove Richard up on his toes, thighs straining even as he buried his teeth in his own forearm, stifling down his own scream.

Graham yanked him back down roughly by his hips, forcing his feet flat only to drive him up again, a ruthless seesaw of motion as he dragged Richard to follow his pitiless rhythm. Screwing his way into the hilt, jerking roughly out, then back in again. Less like sex and more like a demand, the claim Graham was fucking into him more searing, more permanent than a mark of his teeth could ever be.

"You cunt!" Richard snarled, skinning the palms of his hands as he struggled for any leverage, desperate to push back, to make something of this rhythmless, vicious fucking his own. Useless. He went still at the push of the heel of a hand at the indent where his skull met spine, the pressure tantalizingly threatening. One hard blow would paralyze him, likely kill him, and Graham wouldn't, he wouldn't. Only....only Graham had been teetering on the edge of barely sane for a long time, hadn't they all? He wouldn't, only, he might, and Richard thought perhaps the cliff side was crumbling beneath his own sanity, the heavy want in his gut throbbing. 

Behind him, Graham was grunting, hips slapping against Richard's arse as he rammed in harder still, all his strength in the piston-thrust of his dick, vicious, snapping thrusts and Richard could only lie against the body-warmed metal of the truck's hood and take it, stifled by jeans and the threat of paralysis, pinned down by body and hands, cock and grip, trapped by _Graham_ and through all that, he was hard as fucking stone, his own dick rubbing against the hood, smearing wetness. Another hard thrust, driving him along, and Richard groaned through the gag of his own arm.

"Come on, you fucker," Graham grunted, "Come on, you can fucking come from this, I know you can, fucking bitch, take it!" The pressure against his neck rose, leaning into pain and Richard tasted blood, a warm, wet gush of it as his teeth sank through the thin skin of his arm, stifling his own swears, holding back the urge to kick, to fight, he might be able to throw Graham off, might, might be able to get free, get the knife in his boot and--

Richard came alongside a vicious thrust, his feet leaving the ground entirely for a second and the blurriness behind his eyes lit crimson, the hot streaks of his own semen against the hood smearing his cock and thighs as he shuddered through a blood-filled mouth and the feel of Graham coming inside him was secondary to his own. Graham's sudden withdrawal left him empty and raw, arse aching and Graham didn't bother holding back his shout, the sound of his hand on his cock slick and rhythmic as he came in wet lines over Richard's arse, painting him with semen. Marking him.

Sprawled over the truck hood was in no fucking way comfortable but Richard thought if he tried to stand, his trembling legs would only send him to a hard fall on stony ground. Better to stay where he was, semen-sticky front and back, the growing sting from the bite in his a minor distraction. Almost, he flinched at a light touch, almost let the hot burst of adrenaline drive him back to his feet. Instead, he felt the rough rub of a stubbled cheek against his arse, smearing through wet come, spreading it further, higher, to the small of his back where Graham finally rested his head.

It was awkward to twist a hand behind him but Richard managed, fumbling until he could graze Graham's bald head with the backs of his knuckles, probably smearing blood from the bite over him. The blood would be an invitation to any Infected nearby in a way that nothing else could be; they'd have to leave quickly, get driving and get it cleaned up and bandaged before they could do any more hunting.

Richard twisted his arm, felt the bright flare of pain as he rubbed the bite caused by his own teeth deliberately over bare skin, smearing blood. "Mine, you bastard," Richard grated out. "Fucking mine."

"Fucking mine," Graham agreed, hoarsely. He lay a moment longer, then stood, straightening his stained clothes. Blood and come-spattered, the both of them, and neither would garner more than a glance back at home camp.

Bloody as they were, Richard had yet to hear the moaning, shuffling step of the Infected through the brush. That meant Graham was likely right, they'd killed them all. The blockades still needed checked; a squad would have to run the whole line and keep watch. Neither of them would see a bed till morning. 

Likely, they were both half-crazy, Richard knew, their sanity crumbling away beneath the bloody corpses of Infected that they slaughtered daily and at night; they slept clutching each other, fucking more often than not, and every day they woke to do it again. Just like they would tomorrow. 

"Fucking mine," Richard whispered again as he tugged up his jeans, barely heard the echo from Graham as he got into the truck. 

-finis-


End file.
